


Poppy

by ThotHouse



Category: Original Work
Genre: -Ish, Childhood Friends, Drugged Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hispanic Character, Infidelity, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsessive Behavior, Pining, Reader-Insert, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues, Sobriety, Somnophilia, Unrequited Love, Yandere, if you can believe it anytime before the absolute last character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThotHouse/pseuds/ThotHouse
Summary: You fell in love with Antonio Milano when you were ten, he was eight, and because he was the first beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life.
Relationships: Antonio Milano/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Alt title: Bella como un angel y cruel como un diablo_
> 
> Sawyer belongs to [yandere-flower ](yandere-flower.tumblr.com)on tumblr!

You fell in love with Antonio Milano when you were ten, he was eight, and because he was the first beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life.

All big brown eyes and soft curly hair, framing a face you’d only ever seen the likes of at church, a face straight from the statues and murals, this aching perfection that you could only ever register as _holy._ Even with his lips permanently twisted into a point, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he was still so, so pretty.

You’d felt wrong standing in front of him.

You, with your limp hair and ruddy skin. Your clothes, clean, but clearly long stained and handed down. Your roughly accented words that were too brash, too loud, entirely unsuited for the kind of subtle devotion being near him warranted.

Looking at him felt like a sin you didn’t know how to confess and so you’d just stare, chest warm and throat tight as he ignored you day after day after edenic day. 

Your mother had worked for his dad as a housekeeper, or well. Had been hired as one. Even then you’d known it wasn’t normal for a maid to spend so much time in the master suite, alone, with their employer, but you never questioned it and you weren’t asked in turn either.

You were simply dragged along to the sprawling mansion on nights your Tia wasn’t available to babysit and then you were then left, deposited into a living room bigger than your entire house and told to play nice.

And Antonio never wanted to play nice. 

You’d never been sure if he disliked you because of your mother taking his father away for hours, the fact his father went out of his way to cajole him into treating you better, or just on the mere principle that something like you existed near him, but the result was the same.

A cold shoulder and clipped responses, the smaller boy immediately turning and leaving any room you were in. And like a second shadow, you’d always followed.

You couldn’t help it. 

You’d always been a tomboy, the toughest player on the court, the longest lasting in any game of dare, the first person to punch a boy in the mouth for complaining about cooties. Life, to you, was a series of obstacles intent on bringing you down as fast as possible so you, you were going to take them down _first_. 

Then, Antonio. 

Antonio with an existence that proved delicateness could exist, could thrive, could be so different than what you were used to. It’d felt like the world had been turned on its axis and you hadn’t been fast enough to catch up, your easy strides turning to a fettered upward crawl towards a light you’d been previously blind to. 

Looking back it had been pretty pathetic - the way you would chase him from room to room like a bad game of tag. He would just keep ignoring you as he read text after text in that multi-level library or kicked around the cleanest soccer ball you’d ever seen in the backyard. Sometimes he would let you kick the ball back when it got too far out, but that was the start and end of any interaction he allowed. 

It never bothered you. It didn’t matter if you were treated more like a particularly unwanted dog, trailing slowly after its master, it didn’t _matter_. It was _enough_.

You didn’t dare ask for more, couldn’t, part of you knowing that just trying would be futile. That just trying would be wrong and that even wanting to would turn you to salt like Lot’s wife, who’d been smote for that heretic longing.

But you still remember the feeling in your chest the first time he’d smiled at you. 

Lord, you can’t even conceive of forgetting it. How his expression of distrust and scorn at you holding his precious sketchbook had fallen into surprise the moment you’d complimented the drawings within.

“It’s nice,” was all you’d said, putting your hands behind your back in case he thought you were going to take it from him. There was a papercut on your palm from when he’d tugged the notebook away, but it didn’t matter. The pain was just something to dig into to keep your traitorous fingers from reaching out. “Your pictures. They’re nice.”

There was a pause and, “Oh. Thanks.” And then Antonio Milano smiled shyly and the shades of your life pulled open.

You could barely stand to look. The burning flicker of emotion that his acceptance had fanned in you felt too big. Too much.

His smile felt like standing alone in the church presbytery at night when your mother had forgotten to pick you up, staring up at the ceiling until you felt so small that nothing mattered. You remember wondering later how you could ever stand to look at his smiling face again, now that you knew how it felt to receive that grace.

You never found out. 

Antonio ended up trying to show the picture to his father later as your mother had been saying goodbye and had been told to not interrupt with a quick pat on his curly hair and the distracted air of someone who didn’t understand how badly his son needed his attention. 

You’d flinched with Antonio then, and again later when you’d ended up pushed into the coffee table as punishment before you’d left for the night. You’d lied to your mother about being clumsy and Antonio stayed staring daggers into your back and somehow, knowing now he was capable of making a kind face, that hurt more than the bruise.

He never smiled like that at you ever again and soon enough, you were gone anyways. 

Your mother found out she wasn’t the only woman warming Mr. Milano’s bed and quit with a shrieking argument that’d echoed in the opulent mansion.

It rang in your ears for days afterward as memory of the separation, joining the ring of bruises on your wrist from when she’d had to drag you away from the house, and the tears that coated your face as you stared outside the rear window of your Tio’s long haul truck as it headed far, far, into the sunset. 

And away from the little boy you’d sworn to always be besides. 

After that, time passed. It was the easiest way to describe it all. Things happened, school progressed, and you grew older.

You took care of your mother and tried your best to make sure she didn’t get sad too often - an exercise in futility with her penchant for taken men - but still, you’d done what you could.

Cooking, cleaning, pulling the bin closer when she came home puking, expertly coaxing Gatorade past her resisting lips to make sure she was sober enough in the morning to go to work. 

You took your small joys where you could, a handful of minor sins; playing hooky and smoking in the park, half sober hookups with the worst kind of men, drinking until last call with what had to be the shittiest fake ever created and—

It never worked. 

You never forgot. 

The moment the last puff left your mouth, the last muffled groan left the man atop you, the last hint of darkness left the sky and you watched dawn burst in the city from your window seat on the last subway car. You remembered that feeling of seeing him for the first time and realizing that life could be beautiful. 

You still run as long as you’re able, of course. You never were a quitter. 

It isn’t until you’re pulled out of your sleep by sirens does the finish line become clear.

It’s not the first time waking up to cops at the door, nor the first time they come bearing the status of your mother’s latest attempt at finding the bottom of the bottle, but it is the first time you’re told it was successful. 

The thin lipped cop that heralds this news looks you in the eyes, but you don’t feel seen. No. You just see the reflection of the woman you’ve become in his irises. You see it again on a metal slab a few hours later as you identify her as your mother. 

You sign up for community college the next week. 

You’d thankfully managed to scrape by in high school so there was no need to test for the GED, but it raised the bigger, more important question of what there was a need for. You wonder if there’s a need for you anymore. You wonder if there ever was. The world feels dark, unmovable, a pitch black sky with no stars to illuminate the way forward. 

You push your feelings aside and join acquaintances in the dance department, finding a measure of release in the pounding of feet and rivets of sweat that would drip after a few hours of practice. 

You always liked dancing. It felt like worship.

Night after night spent in the shitty ten by six room that counted as a rehearsal space for your college end up catching some people’s attention. You feel the eyes looking at you with more admiration than the judgement you’re used to. 

Doesn’t matter. This isn’t for them. 

You let the texts on your phone from friends pile up and block more than one of them for asking if you wanted to turn tricks together for a couple extra bucks. You change numbers entirely when your ex gets out of lockup and thinks there’s still a relationship. 

Money troubles pile up, as they do, but you manage. Hell, you’re even a little better even without the constant liquid drain on your accounts that was partying. You win a scholarship for urban dance that you didn’t even know existed and it helps. 

People start to notice you, and it’s nice, but it’s secondary to the rhythm that has settled into your skin.

A rhythm that bursts whenever you’re before an audience, that staves off the impending heaviness of not being needed. You’re invited to exhibition after exhibition until you get a call from the admissions department of an _actual_ school of dance, asking you to audition. 

You do. You get in. You fly across the country and watch the sun rise as you land and it feels like a new beginning. 

It’s more expensive here and you have to borrow a cousin’s car to sleep in until your lease comes through - with distinctly more roommates than you’d like, but you can’t change the shitty credit your mom left you with.

The roommates actually turn out to not be that shitty, one welcoming you with open arms and a consideration you’ve never felt before. 

Over late night take-out and swapping stories about shitty hookups, she ends up being your best friend. You pick up odd jobs here and then, spending every night you couldn’t fall sleep in one of the many opulent rehearsal spaces in this school, dancing until one of your nails goes black. You just slap on some moleskin and get back on beat.

You make other friends through your roommate, less rowdy than your old ones but they’re better, somehow. More likely to ask you how you’re feeling than to hold a buck. 

It’s different. Nice, maybe. Being surrounded by people that pretend to give a fuck about you. Makes something in your chest lighten and loosen for the first time in years. You were too happy, then, to help your roommate when she asked for a demonstration for their latest art group’s gathering.

Something about trying to impress one of the fellow students she had a crush on and about practicing action lines and capturing fluid movements on paper. Art was one of those things you never got, no matter how much you tried.

Either way you were getting paid for this demonstration and that was the real incentive. You still arrive a little late, frazzled from having realized you’d forgotten your bag of dance clothes on the bus, but determined to stick it through.

After chatting with the teacher you agree to strip down to your regular bralette and leggings, both tight enough the audience could still see your shape, but loose enough you could keep the proper form. The teacher nods their head as you take your place at the podium and the music starts.

And you move.

The first dance is calm, more interpretive, something you used for your more uppity audiences who thought any kind of hip movement was twerking. You figured it was slow enough for the artists to get more than a handful of strokes in.

You stay as concentrated as you can be on form, letting yourself deviate only slightly when the music swells.

The next few songs are the same and the burning stretch in your limbs is almost meditative. It’s only when the first fast drumbeats start up that your heart begins to pound.

You saved the best for last. 

It’s classic reggaeton beat that you wear like a second skin, from the moment you took your first shaky steps at a cousin’s quinze to now, when you can twist and turn with a trained dancer’s poise and control.

You’re sure the students are having trouble catching up and it only fuels you further. If they wanted to catch you, they had to be better. You launch into the final chunk with a spin, feeling the energy overwhelm and turn you into a whirling dervish of emotions.

When the last note fades off, so do you, panting as you stop.

Applause greets you and it’s familiar now, so you smile wide and brush hair away from your wet forehead. It always takes a few seconds after your finish to get back into the world, awareness of your surroundings burgeoning back to life with the sudden need for breath and soreness in your calves. You were never the best at paying attention, anyways. 

Not like the artist in the second row, whose eyes hadn’t left yours once since you’d stepped off the podium. 

You freeze, caught, something in your chest seizing at that familiar gaze.

No. No. Your lung burn with spent oxygen. This couldn’t be possible.

You rip yourself away to look at the teacher as they thank you for coming, feeling like you’re watching yourself from two inches above, an audience to your own life.

Your friend who invited you is already next to you, talking, but it all sounds like static. Feels like static. You see yourself nod slowly at her and think this can’t be happening, you’re having a fucking psychotic break, that person couldn’t be—

“Antonio!”

Your hands clench. Your friend smiles and turns to look somewhere beside you, saying, “Impressed you managed to wake up this time. Got some questions for my _amazingly_ talented dancer friend?”

Your face turns. His eyes meet yours. The world shifts again and the static feels like wind rushing past your ears as you fall back down into your body.

“—wanted to introduce myself, I’m An—“

“Antonio Milano,” you say like a broken echo. The words taste sacrosanct.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a flurry of activity you only half take in, eyes fixed on the face of the boy you’ve wanted before you knew what wanting was. 

He’s still beautiful, you think to yourself, all childish fat gone and replaced with a face that would look at home on the ceiling of a chapel.

It’s marred only by that familiar beauty mark on his left cheek, but the fault only seems to ground his looks, humanize them into something you could maybe reach if you just stretched for it.

His eyes are the same. Green and sharp and so perfect you want to cry. 

And you would, probably, if you didn’t see the confused twist of his brow, the lack of suspicion in his gaze, the almost innocent openness in his demeanor that all point towards one conclusion. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

Relief and despair fight for dominance in your mind as your friend says, “Oh, you two have met?”

“Maybe, I guess,” Antonio looks taken aback, blinking, looking between her and you. “Have we?” 

He looks in your eyes as he speaks. It makes it harder to respond. But you know he doesn’t know that.

You force a light hearted smile to your face. “I guess. I used to have playdates at your house when we were little.” A pause, devoid of inflection. “My mom was the maid.”

No recognition still, but that’s fine, better actually. Distance, distance was critical.

He looks almost upset by this. Ashamed, likely. “Oh. We did?”

“Yea, but it’s fine, “ you say, abruptly folding your arms. You feel like your guts are about to fall out. “I’m a little older, so you might just have been too young to remember. Random seeing you again, though."

“I’ll have to ask my dad about it next time we talk,” he says and then glances to your friend, “What a coincidence, huh? Sounds like you need to mention me more.”

She giggles. “I would if you showed _up_ more.” 

The tension in your body is up to a full jitter as their easy conversation continues, establishing you firmly as an outsider to the dynamic.

You remember what your friend had said about the hot guy in her art class she was thinking of hooking up with. Judging by what you were hearing, she wouldn’t have much trouble.

You want to laugh. _What divine providence._

“Hey, wanna come?”

Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

Antonio’s small smile is scrambling your ability to calm yourself down.

It doubles when his voice, so much deeper and smoother than you remember, asks, “Grabbing drinks? We all usually decompress after group together. It’d be nice if our subject joined along. Maybe chat and try to refresh those memories?”

“Absolutely not.” You don’t realize you’ve said it aloud until your friend looks at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“You alright? I can skip this and we can hang instead,” she offers, face a mask of genuine concern, but you just shake your head.

“It’s fine, I’m just a little tired. I’ll probably take a nap at home.” 

“Maybe another time,” Antonio says, being polite. You nod your head in his direction, eyes downturned and throat too tight to say anything as you gather your things and all but rush out of the door. 

The hysteria hits you later, as you reach the crest of the third stupidly inclined street. You gasp for breath and exhale into a bark of laughter.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck.

After almost two fucking decades. Antonio mother-fucking Milano. Holy shit.

You start to hiccup as the tears come, leaning against the nearest stoop as the weight of it all bends you. 

Two god-damned decades. And he still didn’t see you. 

You let that knowledge harden the weak, weeping thing in your chest, swallowing the rest of the catharsis and pushing it down with the rest before you stand and begin to trudge home. It’s a few miles off but the walk will do you good.

.

The walk does help, a little bit, enough so that when your friend wakes up the next morning and asks you if you could do another choreography demonstration for her and Antonio, you’re able to keep a straight face as you agree. 

She looks relieved, likely since this was the first major move he’d taken since you first started hearing about him, months ago.

You want to say no, want to tell her to stay away from him, that those handful of months were nothing compared to your wait, but. 

But.

You’re a better person now. You want to be a better person. She’s your friend, your first close friend, and you could do this for her. 

It’s not like you ever had a chance, anyways.

She gushes about how long they’d talked the night prior and you shove your useless self-pity back down where it belonged, poking fun at the red in her cheeks and asking for more details about the demonstration.

Apparently neither your friend nor Antonio felt like they’d actually nailed down action lines and were eager for more practice. And you were the only dancer they knew, so.

It just worked out. 

You smiled and told yourself it would be okay.

You would just avoid them when they hung out at the apartment and after the quick choreo demonstration a week from now you would just look into getting your own studio.

Someplace close, so you could stay friends with your roommates, but separate enough that you didn’t have to have their relationship shoved in your face day in and day out.

It would be okay. You’d make it be okay.

You’re able to believe that until all of five hours before you’re scheduled to drop by Antonio’s studio loft, at which point you desperately text every other student dancer you know and ask if they were able to take over a last-minute set. 

None are both free and interested, and it’s only when you bribe some guy with the rest of the cash from the first art group that he takes the bait. Except he’s actually more interested in getting an introduction to your hot friend from all those public instagram stories she’d insisted you post, to, quote ‘build a brand’.

A brand that led to dicks like him thinking they could ask things like this. 

You waver a moment.

You wanted distance from this mess, for your good and hers, but was putting her in the firing line of some creep the way to do this?

Did you even care, as long as you got what you wanted? 

God, you were a terrible person.

You agree on the basis that you are there as well and long story short, you still find yourself in the elevator to Antoni’s bougie studio loft, just with an extra in tow as buffer. 

You hope the asshole can at least fucking bachata. 

.

You try not to be too interested in the contents of the studio, but it’s difficult. It’s spacious and professionally decorated and somehow ridiculous close to your own dance school. It’s a wonder you’ve never run into him before. 

Hah.

You hear your name and turn from admiring the wall length tapestry map of old Andalusia to see your friend walking over. Beside you, your dance ‘partner’ smirks and you only barely resist the urge to groan as he steps forward to introduce himself. 

“Hey! Don’t think we’ve met. I’ll be assisting in this demonstration today.”

“Oh! Yea, she mentioned you. It’ll definitely be good practice to get some reference for couples dances, I heard that’s pretty hard.”

He puffs up. “Well, you’re learning from the best. I’ve been dancing for almost ten years now. Took second in the qualifiers for the World Salsa Summit a couple years ago.”

“That’s great! I’m sure I’ll get a lot of great figures then. You two look so good together, too!"

“I guess,” says another voice behind you, “Although I think it might be nice to get some sketches of you two separately at first, to get used to the forms.”

The shiver that runs down your back is terrible and you force yourself to be calm as you turn to face the man whose face you see every time you close your eyes.

Your own face is blank as you say, “I guess that’s fine, but they’ll have to be short so we have enough time for a few doubles choreo.” 

Your friend jumps in, sliding next to him. “Of course! Don’t worry, we’re pretty good at this.” She laughs lightly. “Or at least, Antonio is. His stuff is pretty amazing.”

The man in question seems to flush slightly, looking away. You feel your finger nails dig into your palms, almost breaking skin.

The next few minutes of small talk feel like years, and you jump at the chance to volunteer for the first dance.

The space cleared for you is less of a stage and more of an inclined platform, stationed perfectly before a series of wide glass windows that peer out onto the city landscape. 

You feel small when you step forward.

Your heart is in your throat and your hands are shaking and you don’t know what to do, what the fuck to do — until the first few notes of your playlist start to play.

Experience takes over nervousness and you move before realizing you have, suddenly glad you’d thought ahead and lined up songs from when you’d started dancing. 

You knew them well, despite everything.

It’s slower than what you do nowadays, something you’d given up in the years for more ambitious choreography, but dancing them now feels like slipping on a well worn pair of shoes.

Familiar. Comforting. Something you can stomach even with the organ feeling like it’s eating itself whole. 

By the time it finishes, you feel better, bowing at the applause from the two artists and making eye contact only with one of them.

Your dance partner replaces you and you step to the side, standing there and forcing yourself to focus on his own performance.

It’s good, you guess, more fluid than you’d expected out of a man so pushy. Little tense though.

Your eyes catalogue every imperfection in an effort to keep from following their natural pull towards the man sitting a scant few feet away. 

Your friend suggests some salsa music for the paired dance and you agree, sighing as you let yourself be led.

Your fellow dancer passes muster, fortunately, but there was a reason you preferred solo works. He’s only barely in step with you and you have to push down irritation as the music continues.

The hand on your back is too firm, controlling, not giving you enough leeway to actually move, and you grit your teeth.

Throughout the steps, you only just manage to keep your face turned to his. He’s smirking and you wonder if he thinks you’re enjoying this. 

They always thought you were enjoying this. 

They never asked. 

It’s over in what seems like hours, leaving you to wipe the sweat off your face with a vaguely eucalyptus scented face towel — gut wrenchingly familiar in a way that makes you wonder if Antonio had inherited his father’s tastes — and wait to be dismissed. 

“That was _so_ good,” your friend gushes, turning between you two, “Seriously, it was hard not just staring the entire time. Right, Tony?” 

You almost flinch, but keep it together.

He’d hated nicknames when he was little. Maybe that’d changed. Maybe she was the exception.

Maybe you needed to stop fucking thinking about it. 

The conversation continues, almost without you, as they pack up their sketchbooks and you slip your street shoes back on.

Your dance partner is already flirting in full force, suggesting drinks at a friend’s bar just up the block. You immediately start to brainstorm ways to get the hell out of this, but all it takes is one look from your friend for the guilt to bubble back up again and for you to agree.

Nothing to do with the way Antonio smiled expectantly after the offer had been extended. 

.

The bar is packed and exactly the kind of place you’d have loved a few years back.

There’s a group by the bathrooms singing shitty breakup songs and another group huddled in the back you know instinctively is carrying and that leaves you, nursing a club soda with lime and wondering why you were doing this to yourself.

Your friend is in high spirits, already abusing the friend of a friend drink discount and throwing back tequila shots with complete strangers.

She makes friends easily. You never really do. At least not the good ones. 

After giving yourself the premeditated half hour to stand awkwardly sober in the corner, you ditch. It’s only fair. You’ve already lost sight of your friend and staying all night in a bar feeling sad for yourself was something you’d given up a while back. 

The street is dark and it’s already drizzling but the dance studio’s still open and just a few blocks off. 

You know instinctively that you’re not sleeping tonight. Might as well get some actual practice in. Not the half distracted bullshit you’d pulled out this afternoon. The puddles collecting in the holes of cement are shining, reflecting the blinking street lamps.

There’s a sound behind you — a splash. 

You turn, hand already in your bag clutching a pocket knife, before you stop, recognizing the man.

“Sorry!” Antonio says, hands up and looking contrite. “Wasn’t sure it was you, didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”

What the absolute fuck. You stare for a second before making yourself say, “What are you doing here?”

He was supposed to be at the bar. You were supposed to be putting distance between him. 

The rain’s already collected as wet beads in his hair, pasting a curl against his temple.

His smile is shy and something in your chest trills. “Went to go grab another drink and saw you leaving. Everything alright?”

What a question. You say, “Yea, I’m just…not much of a drinker anymore. Thought I’d give you guys some space.”

“Oh,” Antonio looks almost disappointed, or maybe that’s just you wishing. Probably just you wishing. “I get that. I’m usually out after a beer, anyways.”

There’s an awkward moment where neither of you say anything. Then, “I wanted to apologize, actually.”

Now that gets your attention, at least the little of it that isn’t tracing the shadows of his face to memory. You start, saying, “Uh, apologize?” 

“Yes,” he says, stepping a little closer, hands stuffed in his already wet hoodie. “I asked my dad about what you said and he said I was apparently a bit of a bully. I don’t really remember, but—“ Something passes over his face, too quick to follow. “If you were feeling awkward because of that, I just wanted to say sorry. I had some issues back then so I wasn’t the nicest kid and—and that wasn’t fair to you. So, sorry for being a dick, basically?”

You just stare.

In the light of the street lamps he looks almost ethereal, brown eyes dark and focused on you, lips twisted in the slightest frown. Water dripped down his hair faster now as the rain sped up, but he didn’t move.

This wasn’t the same boy you remembered. That boy never bothered to stay still if you were there, much less thought to chase after you if you ran. 

In your effort to separate yourself from the memories, you may have actually tied yourself closer to them.

Maybe you need to stop living in the past. 

First thing was first, though.

“You don’t need to do anything, okay? We were kids,” you start to say, reaching for the words you’ve been trying to make yourself believe for years now, “We all did stupid stuff.” Like stalk pretty boys around their own house. “Let just…I don’t know, put it behind us. You’re hanging out with my friend, so we’ll probably see each other more.”

And you wouldn’t let that get to you, not anymore. So. 

You stick out your hand and say your name. 

Antonio takes the offered hand and shakes it. “Call me Antonio.”

“Not Tony?” You say without thinking.

He winces a little. “I prefer Antonio.”

The terrible possessiveness in your chest almost purrs with pride. His fingers are suddenly too much, wrapped around your palm and you let go.

Your cold hands fall, useless, to your sides.

“Antonio it is, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

Now that you’re not actively avoiding him, Antonio seems to pop up almost everywhere.

He’s your roommate’s constant plus one whenever you all hang out, a fixture at your apartment, an active participant in the group chat. There’s inside jokes and collective teasing and you’re all at his studio every other week for board games and beers and you’re desperately trying to not let this get you. 

It feels almost like you’re slipping, the axis of your life spinning again, but this time so slowly you feel like you’re going crazy. Antonio is the same as when you were younger but different, quiet but attentive, passing you another bottle of seltzer whenever there’s round of drinks and not mentioning it, dropping by some old furniture from his dad when he hears you and your roommate’s struggle to find a couch in budget and not infested with bedbugs. 

He even lets you crash when the game nights run so long you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, offering up his spare bedroom like it was nothing — despite the fact the cost of the mattress alone could probably pay for your month’s rent. 

And of course it always ends up being a great sleep, a complete knock out sleep, the kind you’ve been sorely lacking in the last few years.

You mention this to him and he looks pleased. Angelic, almost.

It makes you feel guilty, knowing that at least some of that sleep had been spent dreaming of his face buried in your cunt, tongue fucking you with a lingering dreamy intensity that has you clenching your thighs and whimpering at the thought.

You wake feeling like Jacob’s ladder, remnants of divinity on the staircase of your ribs, waiting until Antonio leaves on his morning jog before shoving your fingers into that aching emptiness until you come right there, muffling your voice with a downy pillow that’s swallowed more than a few of your moans. 

But you don’t let yourself think about that too much.

You focus on how much better this all is, from when you were younger and just being around him had hurt. He smiles more now, and instead of stopping you cold with that familiar heretic adoration, the expression actually seems to calm you in an odd, familiar way. Like thumbing through your mother’s old book of hymns.

Even the permanent placement of your friend beside him, legs thrown suggestively over his lap, doesn’t seem to dent the feeling.

There’s a spark of envy, a flicker of _mine-NO-don't_ , but it gets easier and easier to push down over time. 

The brush of his fingers against yours as you take your drink stops feeling like bloody lashes. The casual way his lips form your name stops feeling heretic. Exchanging a quick look whenever a mutual friend said something particularly stupid stops feeling so much like confession.

He’s special, yes, and you don’t think you could ever completely calm down around him, but comfort sweeps in quicker than you thought and replaces the longing with something closer to the feeling of hearing a sermon whose words you know by heart. 

Maybe some people were meant only to worship, not to serve. 

With that new stance, it’s easier to talk with him, and you do, even able to stand being alone with him in the taco truck line as your friends rush to grab an empty table in the back of the lot. 

Tacos had been a last minute switch to the usual board games and beer, your best friend especially excited that the good weather had allowed her favorite taqueria truck back into the city. Antonio gives his order quickly with slightly accented Spanish, which makes you smile. 

That’s something new you only knew about this older version of him. You make just a little fun of it, which causes a bright flush on his high cheekbones, but he just laughs along and jokes that you should give him lessons. 

“Might wanna try a tutor for that one, Antonio,” you reply, trying to balance the several plates of tostadas with a hand that’s grabbing the next order, “My vocabulary is pretty much just cursing and dirty, dirty words, _cabron_.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind hearing you talk dirty,” he says, neatly taking the stack from your arms and looking down at you with dark eyes. You refuse the shiver that runs down your back. He didn’t mean it like that. You had to keep reminding yourself of that, to keep from reading into every little thing he said and blowing it up the same as you had when you were children. 

You give an awkward smile. “Funny, Antonio.” 

The food is great, almost as good as what you grew up with, and you rack it up to the genuine camaraderie of the truck staff, their voices arguing almost above the loud bachata music blaring through the dense parking lot.

You take your usual spot next to Antonio, your roommate sitting across from him probably playing footsie judging by her bouncing knee. You tell yourself you don’t care, that you don’t wish to switch places. 

You doubt you’d even be able to eat a bite while looking at him, anyways. 

The casual chatter is soothing and you start playing with your usual braid, trying to tuck the loose strands back in. It's getting loose. Your roommate notices and frowns. “You need a new scrunchie, girl?” 

You shake your head, sighing. “Nah, it’s fine.” The braid is pretty much bust anyways and you just separate the strands quickly, letting them fall free. She shrugs and calls down the table for the rest of the salsa verde. 

You used to keep your hair pretty short in the past and probably should now, since it didn’t exactly help with dancing, but there was a small piece of vanity in you. Sure, your hair was thin and limp but its length was the one thing you were proud of. You push it back with a hand, exhaling hard once it’s away from your face.

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside you. You turn. Antonio is looking at you again. You frown, wondering if you’d accidentally hit him with your hair in the struggle. “You good?” 

His gaze is fixed somewhere between your collar and the thin spaghetti straps half falling off your shoulder, moved solely so as to not put pressure on the weird puffy mosquito bite on your shoulder you’d found a few days back. 

You lean closer, bare arm brushing his gently, worried at his lack of his response. “Antonio?” 

He stands so suddenly you almost fall off the bench. “Sorry, I just remembered. I promised I’d call my dad.” 

Before you can actually say anything, like commenting how you’ve never seen him so excited to talk to his father, Antonio is up and walking away. Your roommate turns to you, confused, but you just shrug. Her best guess was as good as yours. She starts to say, “I think I’m going to go check on him…”

“I can do it,” you cut her off, feeling guilty. Whatever weird mood he was in was probably your fault anyways. You’re already on your feet, following him. “I needed to use the bathroom anyway. Want something else while I’m up?”

She perks up. “Oh! Some elote, if they still have!” 

You wave back and start the eerily familiar routine of chasing after Antonio Milano. Your suspicions are correct in that he’d gone towards the restrooms, but there’s no sign of him making a call outside. There’s only one unisex stall and you knock lightly, waiting for a response. There’s no answer, but you can hear muffled noises that signal someone is in there. “Antonio? That you?” 

There’s a sudden thump inside and a few muttered curses before the door swings open to reveal the man himself, face red and panting slightly, cherubic lips red from where his teeth press into them.

It only takes a quick glance down to his unbuckled belt and the thick line pressing against the inside of his jeans to put it all together. 

You’re not sure who moved first, if there were even any time between that first meeting of eyes and the sudden clang of the bathroom door behind you as you’re neatly lifted against it, but those memories were lost in the surge of prophetic fever that’s now consuming you more with every touch of his bare skin. 

His hands are firm, big, clenching your ass with a desperate want that hits you in the gut. Your raise your hips to meet his, hissing at the first rough brush of his covered length against you, the layers between you somehow not dulling the sheer friction. His lips are as soft as you’ve always dreamt, pliant and warm, parting your own with a practiced ease that makes you feel like a sacrifice. 

You kiss him back, tongue dipping in and out and against his in a dance that you feel in your fucking bones, a rhythmic push and pull that mimics the grinding of your hips.

You’ve already wrapped your legs around his thin waist, moaning, pushing closer, closer because that is the only word you even understand anymore. His fingers are kneading at the junction of your thighs and you want to sob at how his bare hands feel there, perfect and _closer_ and right. 

You’re choking on this prayer. 

His hands are too busy holding you up so you’re forcing to reach up and cup his face, turning it to deepen the kiss impossibly further. The wet smacks of lips and tongue are loud, so loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of your own heart, pounding so fast you felt about to pass out. 

_Is this what dying is?_

Antonio makes a choked sound as your fingers dig into the back of his neck and all worries leave, replaced only with the calm acceptance that any suffering was worth a taste of this boy. 

You hear your name, distantly. And then, “Are you in there?”

It’s like a splash of cold water, a pagan baptism.

Your friend, just behind the metal bathroom door, repeats, “You’ve been taking a while, are you sure you’re alright? I told you that lengua was a bad decision! Anyways, I flirted with the taco guy and got an extra elote, you want?”

You’re already breaking away, adjusting your shorts so they’re not riding up your ass, forcing your voice to be calm as you reply, “Y-yea. Sure. Sorry, I’ll be right out.” 

The hand on your side slowly moves away and you’re too numb to shudder. God, what have you done. Something like you—touching—what have you done. 

Something moves in your vision and you step back, folding your arms.

You whisper, "Don’t touch me.” 

There’s no response. You don’t dare look up. You wait the few seconds after your friend has left and the sound of her sandals against the gravel is only an echo.

Then, you say, “I won’t tell her, but this can’t happen again.”

“Wait, I—“

“Never, “ you repeat, almost hissing, hating yourself so, _so_ much for how the just the sound of his voice sends another traitorous throb between your legs, “You’re dating my friend. I won’t do this to her. I _won’t_.” 

Part of you knew that this wasn’t just on you, that he, Antonio, had been a willing participant in this sin, but it was drowned by a wave of shame because it _was_ your fault. You and your childhood obsession had done this, sent the signals, seduced a taken and pulled him down to your blasphemous level, used lust as justification to do whatever you wanted.

_Just like your mother._

The shame wells up again and you feel your eyes start to prickle with tears. You force them back with gritted teeth and say, “This never happened, Antonio.” 

You hear him call your name as you turn and leave, but you will not turn to look back again. He doesn’t follow you and you return to the table, grabbing the cheese drizzled corn cob your friend had already placed by your spot and digging in.

Your roommate jokes about how long you took and you only faintly smile in response as you continue choking it down, this unasked-for gift of friendship.

It tastes like salt. You deserve it. 


	4. Chapter 4

You skip the next few hangouts, claiming to have some food poisoning from the street food. Antonio doesn’t try to contact you, although your roommate does mention he’s been down lately. 

The sudden clench in your gut is unwelcome. You comment that he was probably just upset after the call with his father and that perks her up, starting an impromptu brainstorming session about how to set up a family dinner.

You mentally check out at some point, probably once the image of Antonio introducing her to his father starts to stick and with it the immediate jealousy that you have no right to feel. Less than no right. 

You still feel him, sometimes. 

You try, you really do, but now that the fantasies have something to be compared to it’s so hard to keep your mind from wandering, _remembering_.

The way his lips felt against yours.

The feeling of his arms holding you close.

The hungry look in his eyes as you gasped for breath and more of him and everything and how finally, _finally_ you could feel the world stand still.

His smell seems to be everywhere now that you’re without him, lingering in the couch cushions and in the spare blanket he’d borrowed from your room once and--you _choke_ on it, day after day. 

Maybe that’s what finally weakens your resolve, between the nights of half sleep and afternoons spent doing everything just up to breaking your own toes on the wood of the dance studio. The exhaustion. Of running. Of wanting. 

Your friend texts you the afternoon she’s supposed finally be meeting Mr. Milano, asking you to run to his studio to drop off some wine she’d forgotten.

You have no _real_ reason to refuse, you tell yourself. You were heading over to campus anyways, his place was just there, and she had a spare key, so it wasn’t like you’d have to see him. Just stop by and drop the bottles off. That was all.

Wondering if a sin counted as one if you refused to admit it, you climb the stairs to Antonio’s studio quicker than you needed to, only pausing by the door.

You cradle the bag of wine closer and force yourself to breathe. You were dropping off drinks for your roommate’s official meeting-the-parents dinner with her partner. You were not involved. 

As if to prove you wrong, the door opens without you lifting a hand. The man answering it is smiling. “Oh, you must be Antonio’s friend!” 

Mr. Fucking. Milano. You gape. He lifts the bag from your arms with ease, using his free hand to usher you in by the small of your back. “It’s so great to finally meet you, my son’s said so much about you. All compliments, of course! Got to say, I’m glad you reached out to set this all together, Anto’s just useless with get togethers.” 

“Uh,” you start, already feeling the beginnings of panic, “I think you’ve gotten the wrong—“

“Though I don’t know why he’s waited so long to mention you. Probably just worried about his old man swooping in, not that I would,” Mr. Milano chuckles at that, seemingly ignoring you as he starts to unpack the bottles of wine you’d helped your roommate pick, using what you remembered from days of crawling around the wine cellar in the old Milano home. He hums at one, “Oh, nice vintage. You have some good taste, huh? Might have to rethink letting Antonio have you.”

This is way too fucking far.

You stand, about to speak, but you’re stopped by your own name called behind you. You turn to face Antonio, standing by the open door, just looking confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I-I,” it’s harder than you thought to face him again, all the fantasies and memories having blurred together into something that won’t let you meet his gaze without wanting to drop to your knees and prostrate yourself before him.

You choke the explanation out, "Dropping off the wine. For dinner. With my roommate. Not me.” You feel the need to add that. 

“I was just with her, “Antonio says slowly, “She said something came up with her portfolio and had to talk with her advisor. She didn’t tell you?”

You fumble with your phone. A missed call. Multiple texts. Her portfolio had fallen from her bag in the arts department and she was busy looking for it, she asked you to just drop the wine by campus when you could.

You shake your head, now feeling both out of place and embarrassed. “My phone was on silent. I didn’t think to check.”

Someone claps their hands behind you. “Well, mixup or no, there’s no use in wasting perfectly good wine. Care for a drink?”

It’s less of a question than you’d expect, as Mr. Milano is already handing you a near full glass of wine you’re forced to either accept or drop. “I figure it might be good to catch up anyways, given the last time we met you and Anto could barely handle a few drops without passing out.”

“We were probably, like, ten,” Antonio snaps back, something hard in his eyes, “You shouldn’t have been giving kids anything to drink.” 

Mr. Milano sighs extravagantly. “Oh, but you asked so nicely for it. Even wanted to share from my cup. The poor girl told you it was a bad idea, but you never did listen to her.” He turns to you with a hand on his chest, all contrite. “I do hope my son has fixed that habit, it was always such a disappointment seeing him act _so_ immaturely. Always the sort to cut off his nose to spite his face. A face, I must add, whose symmetry he owes largely to me.”

From the corner of your eye you can already see Antonio fuming. You quickly say, “That was a while ago, Mr. Milano. Antonio’s changed a lot.”

It had been your fault, anyways, you were the unwelcome outsider to their home. Probably drank just to spite you. 

“Please, call me Cliff,” Mr. Milano says with an almost too white smile, “I think we’ve known each other long enough, no?”

That’s what your mother had called him, giggling behind closed doors, so no, you could not do that. You smile awkwardly, saying politely, “I think I’m more comfortable with being formal for now, if that’s alright?” 

There’s a snicker beside you and you turn to see Antonio grinning like a cat tummy-up. 

“Well, there’s always time for that later,” Mr. Milano continues, seemingly unfazed, “For now I’m eager to hear all about what’s happened in your life. My son tells me you’re quite the accomplished dancer.” 

Somehow you’ve all made it to the dining table, trying your best to sit up straight and not rumple the material of your slit skirt further.

You answer, “Yes, full scholarship at the school just a few blocks from here. They’re actually the ones that flew me out — I was on the other coast before.”

“Oh, is your mother still there?” Mr. Milano leans forward, glancing quickly at Antonio who’s digging for something in the fridge, “It must be hard being so separated from her, I know a parent gets _so_ worried when their child moves away. Especially when they don’t keep in touch like they should.“

From your peripheral, you can see Antonio roll his eyes, but it's hard to make out from the sudden churning in your gut.

The pulse in your ears is cacophonous, your voice sounding almost too soft as you say, “My mom's dead, Mr. Milano. For some time now.”

There’s silence in the studio now.

You meet his eyes, finally, wondering if that old anger of yours would flare. There’s a lot of reasons to hate Mr. Milano and you feel like it would be easier if you did, but it’s not. Not when you’re actually facing him.

Not when you recognize that wrinkle in his brow as the same one Antonio had whenever he said something he particularly regretted but didn’t know how to fix.

Antonio drops a can of seltzer in front of you and you exchange your glass of merlot for the familiar drink with a murmured, “Thank you.” No one seems eager to fill the silence so you do, after a quick sip of the bubbling liquid to clear your throat. “It’s all right, it was a while ago anyways. It’s actually the reason I even went back to school.” The soft metal of the can sinks under your fingertips. “In some ways it was a long time coming.”

“I’m sorry,” says Antonio, his voice coming from beside you, soft and soothing the mess churning in your chest, “Did you have any other family…?”

You shake your head. “Lost touch with most of them a while back.” More like they’d kicked you to the curb once stories of your general misbehavior had officially labeled you as a bad influence on the cousins. “But I’ve gotten used to handling things on my own, anyways.” 

“I’m here now, though,” he says, gently nudging your shoulder with his, “You know I’m always down to talk about anything, right?”

You know. You know but you also know you will abuse it and him and he doesn’t deserve that. He’s a good person, with a good girlfriend and you didn’t belong in this picture, even if he didn’t realize that yet. 

You make a non-committal sound and say, “That’s nice of you, Antonio, but I can handle things myself.” 

You aren't a good person and will never be and you don't dare drag him down to your level, even for one more touch.

Even still you can’t help but meet his eyes, touched despite yourself at the open concern in them. 

There’s a cough that almost makes you jump. “Well, I hope you know that I’m always here if you need assistance as well.” There’s an odd look of glinting satisfaction on Mr. Milano’s face. “Any friend of Antonio’s is one of mine. Now, have you eaten yet? I was about to take my son out to dinner, but like I’ve always said, food is always better enjoyed with a beautiful woman by your side.”

“Dad—"

“We don’t even have to take him, honestly, Anto’s always going on about how he hates any kind of fine dining—“

Antonio’s already up, clearing the glasses with a speed that almost guarantees a chip or two. “You’re not taking her out alone, I _know_ you, you’ll make it weird.”

“Weird!” Mr. Milano turns to you in a huff. “My own son, and he has no faith in me. I can control myself around a pretty face, I assure you, and let me just say that I have much more practice at it than him. In _many_ ways."

You can’t help but snicker at both the older man’s not so sly wink and the way Antonio’s already tugging on his coat.

You feel better for the first time in days and tell yourself that maybe, maybe you could do this. Keep your feelings from messing up what was maybe one of the best friendships you’ve ever had. 

You’re wrong, of course, and you know it. 

From the first moment Antonio grabs your hand to pull you away from his father’s attempts at helping you stand. 

To the shy way you couldn’t help but meet his eyes over the dimly lit dinner table.

All the way to how his thick, throbbing cock feels stuffing you again and again as you cry out his name on the floor of a near empty studio, voice echoing through the high ceilings and the closest experience you’ve ever had to true prayer.


	5. Chapter 5

You wake up several times, limbs heavy and sweaty, the smell of sex and sheets and some expensive cologne oddly familiar. Each time, Antonio is there, eyes closed and head turned towards you, soft curls bunched against the rumbled pillows and chest rising slowly up and down. The sight is mesmerizing and you can’t help but stare. 

Light from outside filters in through the curtains and you think you know how Adam felt, tempted and knowing better but still unable to follow the lead of the only other person on the planet who mattered. 

The emptiness in your chest is straining now and you press yourself closer to him, wishing you could crawl somewhere between his ribs and just die, content, happy. 

“ _Te quiero_ ,” you mumble against his skin, " _Te quiero_ , _Antonio_.” The soft light of the moon makes you bold, strengthening the heresy in your limbs to a fever pitch. In a voice even softer than a whisper, lips barely twitching, you add, “ _Te amo_.”

The morning comes too fast and the sins of the last night make their punishment known, the ache of your lower body forcing you up. It’s been a while since you’ve been fucked, you admit, much less so well. The glide of his body against yours had been perfect, his fingers expertly winding you up until you’d broken, multiple times, helpless against a touch that seemed to know your body better than you did. 

It’s easy to slide out from the bed, pausing only to commit the sight of Antonio’s naked body, splayed out across the sheets to memory before padding over to the bathroom. There’s an ensuite in his room but you were already used to using the one in the hallway. You stop afterwards by the kitchen, grabbing a seltzer and finishing it in three gulps. God, you were thirsty. You down another before collecting the empty bottles to recycle. You were never one to leave a mess. 

It’s only after you finish cleaning up do you see it, the sharp corner breaking out of the clear recycling bag waiting by the door. It’s an odd shade of pinkish brown you’d only ever seen on—

Your roommate’s portfolio. 

A lead weight seems to drop in your stomach. 

No. No, you were imagining things. You were being fucking paranoid. You were—

The bag is clawed open before you even realize you’ve made the decision to do it, scraps of a pizza box and broken down cardboard packages littering the floor, seeming almost deliberately to frame the object buried all the way at the bottom. 

The one with your roommate’s name, printed in large letters on the front. 

Your stomach turns violently and you feel like you’re about to throw up. Fighting the dizziness, you rise to your feet and start to back up down the hallway. It feels like the axis of the world is turning, spinning, but too fast this time, with not enough warning for you to even think of getting your bearings. 

Your elbow hits something and you hear the creak of a door groaning open. 

You flinch, turning, almost falling, but catching yourself on the doorway just in time to look up and stare directly at yourself. You, your form, your face, your being, lining the walls in pieces of art that ranged from scraps of paper to sprawling canvases that didn’t even look like they could fit through the front door. 

You, balanced on one foot and staring resolutely ahead. 

You, in profile, picking at the tab of a seltzer can. 

You, eyes closed and lips open, usual pajama dress pulled up to your neck and underwear pulled down, stomach and breasts glistening. 

You’re hyperventilating, you know, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the room from spinning. You cover your mouth with a hand, trying to keep quiet. This was not normal. This was not normal. This was not the work of a good—

“You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

Antonio’s voice is tight, choked with panic and you can barely summon the energy to look at him. There’s black at the corner of your vision now. He’s stepping closer. “It’s not ready yet, you weren’t supposed to—why did you even go in here? My workspace is private.”

Part of you wanted to laugh at his bringing up privacy while standing next to a photorealistic sketch of your goddamned cunt, but the rest of you was just frantically trying to fucking understand. “Antonio, what is this?”

He’s shirtless still and you’re reminded of old paintings of begging angels. “I-I just wanted to capture the way you make me feel.” 

There’s off color spots staining some of the sketches. Most of them, now that you’re looking. You feel bile rising. Your stomach hurts. You don’t feel good. You feel like you’re hovering above yourself, watching yourself, watching all the yous in this room as they watch you whisper, “Oh Dios mío, perdona nuestros pecados.”

Antonio says something in response, looking desperate, but you don’t catch it, not the few seconds before the emptiness wins and you fall, fall, fall. 

.  
.  
.  
You wake to a dark room, bound wrists, and a cold draft that probably has something to do with your complete lack of clothes. 

“You weren’t supposed to drink that much,” a voice says and you sluggishly turn your head to meet the red-rimmed eyes of a man you’d once promised yourself to never let cry, “I measured it perfectly, you weren’t supposed to have more than one."

Oh. The seltzers. The ones he’d always so considerately given you when everyone else was drinking beer at the game nights in his studio. The ones that had always made you feel just a bit sluggish and more accepting of his offer to stay and crash as the night went on. You should feel surprised, but you don’t, the confession of drugging you for the past few weeks just another detail falling in place to form a conclusion you’d never thought possible. You watch him as he continues speaking. 

“I did this for you, okay? It was the only way, you were so stubborn and I just-just wanted to make you feel good. You told me you were sleeping better, right, babe?”

You’re reminded slowly of a painting you always used to stare at at the chapel, whose angelic subject was devoid of the usual warmth, crystal clear eyes hard and seeming to follow you with every step. 

You used to have nightmares about that painting.

“Please, you understand, right? Just tell me you understand. I didn’t know what else to do, you wouldn’t talk to me and —and I just panicked. You already hated me from when we were little and I couldn’t, I couldn’t just leave it like that, I had to make sure,” his voice breaks at the last bit, “You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, I couldn’t just let you walk away.”

Something crystallizes in your chest, an odd empathy that’s hard to hold, swallow, thick like tar and twice as caustic. His eyes are so side, his brow so strained. His hands so, so, shaky. There’s a right thing to do and then there’s what you’ve always known you’d do, heretic that you were, devotee of this false idol.

You meet his eyes and part your legs, spreading yourself wide for him to see. 

He takes the invitation without any prompting, almost throwing himself onto the bed and sealing the lips of your sex with his own. 

You dig your fingers into your palms and hiss, raising your hips as his hands firmly grab the globes of your ass. He licks and mouths at your opening with a single minded intensity, burying his face so deep you can feel his nose press against your clit, using the bulk of his shoulders to spread you wider. 

It burns, your muscles, your cunt, the tears that trickle out from the corner of your eye and onto the pillow. You’re self immolating and you’re taking him with you. 

Antonio starts tongue fucking you in earnest now, the wet muscle diving in and out of your already dripping pussy as your pants start to fill the air, joining the rest of the sounds in the air. 

It’s not long before you’re coming, body somehow knowing how this went even if you didn’t. He drags out another two climaxes from you before you’re broken, voice hiccuping with emotion, “Antonio—Antonio, please, please, please, I need you, I need you in me please, please, Antonio—“

There’s a muffled shift before he even moves, reaching up to kiss you deeply, smearing your lips and chin with your own juices. You’ve never heard of a more joyous communion. 

His erection is heavy against your thigh, already rutting into the curve of your hip, and you want to sob. Antonio reaches a hand between you and lines up to your entrance, already so wet you feel like you’re dripping onto the sheets enough to stain the mattress. His dick enters you still too carefully, slowly, seemingly dragging out the feel of every inch. He throws his head back once he’s bottomed out, gasping, his balls slapping hard against your ass. 

Hands still tied to the bed posts, you can’t reach for him, hold him, powerless only to take and take and take all that he gives. 

And he does, once he adjusts, grabbing your hips with both hands and fucking into you like he could impress himself somewhere there, so deep in your cunt you’re never without him. 

You’re so much fuller than before, wired, the heresy in your veins accepted and ruling now. The confession is on your mouth in seconds, “I love you, I love you, I’ve a-always—ah—loved you, Anto—“ 

He comes suddenly and with a sharp cry, still pumping his hips desperately before burying himself so deep you half think you feel it in your gut. The heat combined with the way his face looks, twisted in pleasure — eyes shut, hair wild, lips puffy and glistening with your own arousal — and it’s no surprise you follow soon after, spurred the smell, sound, feel of him. 

His eyes are watching you when you open them again, a heart wrenching, almost scared, adoration in them.

It mirrors the same feeling you’ve been cradling since you were ten years old. 

You repeat the words you wish you knew how to say back then, “I love you, Antonio Milano. I think I’ll die loving you.” 

And his answering smile is bright, a morning star you’ll follow long after all the others have blown out. 

_Amen._


End file.
